


Stygian Justice

by Laurasauras



Category: Homestuck
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Come Inflation, F/F, Oral Sex, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Pale-Caliginous Vacillation, Pheromones, Power Dynamics, Quadrant Vacillation, Size Kink, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 12:16:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15729225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurasauras/pseuds/Laurasauras
Summary: You would hate her if she presumed to use you, you would hate her so much and so well that she would be left unsatisfied by future pitch partners for sweeps.Mindfang/Redglare porn with just a sprinkling of plot.





	Stygian Justice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eightbots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eightbots/gifts).



> Thank you so much to [ SZ ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/szgrey/pseuds/madjazzed) for the amazing and thoughtful beta.

The night sky is peaceful, the twin moons almost full and casting their familiar light on the ocean. You survey your fleet with a satisfaction so intense you feel it in your throat. With the latest conquest you now have reached the very limit on the number of crew you can support. It’s time to get another ship. 

There’s a breeze, but it doesn’t do much more than play with your hair. The ships are crawling along, but you don’t feel the need to engage your psionic slaves. You like drifting after a successful hunt. It feels like a boast. You don’t need to run.

You think you’ll probably replace your own ship, even though it is quite spectacular. There’s always room for an upgrade and the underlings do like being gifted your nice things when you’re done with them. You deserve a  _ shamefully _ decadent ship with how well you’ve been doing lately. As a treat. You could stand to spoil yourself more. (Your accountssassin does not agree.) 

A shadow cuts across the ship and you glance upwards to see what the source is. The sky remains just as cloudless as it was last time you looked. You barely touch your telescope when it is made painfully obvious what caused it. 

A monstrous dragon dives through the air and screams fire through its jaws. The ships in its path are obliterated and the ones nearby catch alight as well through sheer heat. You open your mouth, perhaps to scream orders at your crew, but nothing comes out. What the fuck could they even do?

The dragon circles in the sky in a lazy, predatory way, before choosing a new arc and diving to ruin even more of your ships. You gasp as the heat reaches your face. It should be impossible to feel from this distance, but it definitely is there. You know exactly how far away those ships are. The fact that the dragon looks that big from that distance is worrying. Its torso is probably the size of the ship you’re standing on. (Who the fuck are you kidding, a dragon the size of your mother would be  _ plenty _ to deal with.)

You turn reflexively when you hear a scream from your own ship, rather than the ones of distant trolls being burnt alive. The oliveblood who screamed is staring at your lusus, who has broken free of her cage. Well, it was never intended to hold her, just to provide some measure of reassurance to the idiots on board who lacked confidence in your ability to keep her well fed. 

Your spidermom scuttles across the ship to your side, such as she can when you are only barely larger than her pincers. You pat her leg, grateful for the support. At least if you’re going down it will be as captain of the most impressive legion of gambligants in Alternia’s history and in a literal blaze of glory. 

It’s only when you have that thought that you remember that you aren’t going to die today. You aren’t going to die for hundreds of sweeps. You  _ know _ this. 

The dragon has now sunk or melted most of your ships other than the one that you’re standing on. The only ones that are not destroyed are hanging on to that status by the flimsiest of threads. It now turns to your ship and you walk to the quarterdeck, where you belong. 

It’s massive. You knew that, but it’s different seeing it up close. The moonlight gleams off its pearlescent scales and the wind generated from the beat of its wings blows your hair and coat every which way as you stand tall. You do not die today. You  _ don’t. _

Now that the beast is close, you can see that it has a passenger sitting astride it. It’s a lusus. Who the  _ fuck _ is allowed a dragon lusus? 

You are interrupted from your incredulity when you make the mistake of looking into the dragon’s red eyes.

It  _ hurts _ , hurts like nothing else, burns in a way that feels sickeningly close to permanent even though you wrench your gaze away almost immediately. It hurts like an unprepared-for sunrise, like your kismesis taking advantage of your sensitive sight, like the worst sting you’ve ever gotten but  _ in your eyes _ . You squeeze them shut and hunch over on the deck so you won’t do it again, gently cupping your hands over them as if you’ll be able to feel what has happened. And you can, almost. There’s swelling, much more on your left eye, your special eye, than your right. They’re leaking. Hell, you’ve lost enough dignity, you might as well own the fact that you’re crying, but the tears do feel more like your eyes have just given up on holding liquid inside them. It should be soothing, but it isn’t. It just hurts.

But you are Marquise Spinneret Mindfang. You are the leader of the greatest fleet of gambiligants to ever exist. You have uncannily good luck and you have a lot of pride. You take a last gasping breath and then let it out smoothly. You wipe the tears from your face as brusquely as you can without hurting your tender eyes and stand tall.

You open your eyes slowly and are horrified to realise that your vision is severely fucked. You can’t see out of your left eye at all, but your right eye isn’t much better. Still, you are resolved to face up to this properly and you won’t let a bit of what is surely temporary blindness stop you.

The woman who was perched on the dragon’s back is now standing on your deck, leaning on a staff topped with a dragon’s head. Well. You would probably be just as gauche if you had a lusus like that. Your coat is decorated with spiderweb for your mom’s benefit.

The woman cocks her head to the side and grins at you with a mouthful of very sharp teeth. She looks fuzzy through your fucked eyes, but you can see the glint of those teeth. It seems like they take up most of her damned face.

‘I am Neophyte Legislacerator Redglare. This is Pyralspite. You have killed thousands and enslaved hundreds. You have taken treasure that is not yours and worse, have offered no bounty to our glorious empress. What do you have to say in your defense?’

You give her a smile of your own and reach out with your psionics to nudge Spidermom’s mind. You can’t communicate with her as if she was a troll, but you can do enough for this.

Your lusus rears onto her back four legs before lunging for Redglare. 

The bitch doesn’t even flinch. And Spidermom never meets her target.

You have lived a long life in an intense and combative relationship with your lusus. If you had not provided her with other children to eat as soon as you were able, she would have turned on you. And yet, since before you left your childhood hive and started making a name for yourself, she has been your stalwart defender. She’s your mom.

You don’t think Pyralspite even had to chew on her. He just swallowed her whole. 

‘Your defense is noted,’ Redglare says. She looks at you over the top of her tinted red glasses. ‘I was expecting more. Dualscar seemed to think you were a challenge. I’m not sure I can even be bothered to pity you.’

You scream at her and draw your sword from your scabbard. Faster than you would have thought possible, she dodges under your slash and neatly severs your arm from your shoulder. You didn’t even see her draw a weapon.

You don’t allow yourself to make a sound, you just bare your teeth at her. Your psionics are shit for most kinds of physical manipulation, but you can force your blood to clot with focus. It’s saved your life before and it will again today. It  _ fucking _ hurts. But you won’t let it show.

‘Oh, Mindfang,’ she says. ‘No one is immune to justice. Not even you.’

Even you know when you are beaten. You kneel in front of her, chin up and neck exposed. You hear a cacophony of sound as your crew mimics your surrender, throwing weapons to the deck. 

Redglare smiles at you for a long time. By the time her ship arrives, she has tied every last one of you up with a skill you refuse to admire. You wouldn’t be getting out of these ropes even if you had two arms. 

*

In Redglare’s custody, you are given every comfort. Your quarters are smaller than your usual, but certainly large enough to contain a recuperacoon and desk. You write in your journal, something that you’ve always spent a lot of time on. You’ve always felt that your legacy should be preserved, and you don’t trust your inevitable biographer to get it right. There’s a way to tell a story, and those who come after you deserve to hear yours done properly.

Your shoulder takes five days to stop incessantly throbbing, and then another week to stop hurting when you accidentally brush against the stump. Your left eye, the one that gave you vision eightfold, doesn’t heal, even when your mundane one does. You’re not expecting it to. You throw more than a few things against the wall of your respiteblock to try and express the awful fury that fills you when you consider all that you lost within the span of an hour. The fact that Dualscar was culled by the Grand Highblood does little to comfort this anger. He probably died quickly from a club to the head. Not enough to satisfy you.

Redglare doesn’t just leave you to sulk in your respiteblock. She insists that you join her for meals, even though there are plenty of shitblooded trolls aboard her ship who would be able to bring you your food. 

She’s unfailingly polite and businesslike, even though she must know that you are harboring a hatred in your belly that is only stoked hotter the longer she ignores it. You haven’t been particularly subtle. In fact, you’ve been almost obvious. You hope that the gesture comes across as you insultingly underestimating her, not as some kind of desperation for her to respond. Though, of course, it’s both. 

You initially thought that her assignment to your case meant that the Grand Highblood and his subjugglators didn’t really want to capture you, but were only sending the neophyte as a gesture so it  _ looked _ like they were. Sure, you’ve broken laws, but you also evaded capture. You earned your treasure by being clever enough to obtain it. Trolls who can’t defend their possessions deserve to have them liberated by one who will take the trouble. 

If it was you in those villages you pillaged, even if you were foolish enough to keep your entire hoard in one spot, you still would not give up a single caegar. They should be thanking you for sparing the bloodline their softness.

You mention this to Redglare, in as casual a way as you can, over your evening meal. You are fresh from the ‘coon, feeling finally recovered enough to have earned back some of your swagger and you know that even dressed in generic prison attire you look good. (You think you would hate your prisoners for looking good in clothing that is intended to rob them of their power, but she doesn’t seem to care.)

She grins at your remark and looks you up and down. You  _ burn _ with desire, you want her broken just for you, broken over hating you.

‘Maybe you could have stood up to  _ your  _ pirates,’ Redglare allows. ‘But if it were me after your treasure, you would fold. You would  _ crumple _ .’ She pauses and takes a bite of her grubloaf. ‘I’m sure we’re all grateful I’m on the side of the law,’ she says.

You glare at her. You hadn’t thought you would ever meet someone who could rival your self confidence. Dualscar was arrogant, but there was no follow through. Not with you. Not until he sold your secrets and got himself killed for his trouble. 

You’re positively leaking pitch pheromones, but it’s like she can’t tell. You’ve never seen anyone pull off this kind of indifference, not a single troll who has gone through their adolescent molt. You know she’s young, she’s still a neophyte, but she’s clearly an adult. (Did she announce her neophyte status so you would know that you had been taken down by a rookie and feel that additional humiliation? Or is she just that much of a stickler for the rules?)

You suppress a growl of frustration when you see the final lingering lowblood looking at you furtively as he leaves the room.  _ He  _ could smell your desire. You glare at your plate and stab at the loaf with your fork. Having one arm is severely impacting your ability to eat tidily, but what do you care. You’re a pirate. An imprisoned one, at that. 

‘How long until we reach the court?’ you ask.

‘Another week.’

‘Is there a reason that you are transporting me at the rate of a crippled wiggler attempting to outrun an imperial drone?’

You’re not looking at her, still pretending to be focused on your food, but you can hear that grin in her voice again.

‘Maybe I like the decoration you provide,’ she says. 

A growl rumbles in your throat and you look at her hungrily, hoping she means what you think she means. You would hate her if she presumed to  _ use _ you, you would hate her so much and so well that she would be left unsatisfied by future pitch partners for  _ sweeps _ . 

You’ve tried to crack into her mind time and time again, but the most you can do is make her stumble. And that’s not even satisfying because she’s so graceful the rest of the time that she doesn’t seem to care if she occasionally trips over nothing when she’s around you.

You  _ have  _ taken over a couple of lowbloods, but she just brandished a pair of psionic dampeners at you threateningly and you stopped. You don’t want those things on your horns. You need your powers if your plan is going to succeed. 

You are completely in her control. You have no weapons except your claws and your teeth and you don’t dare use them. You have never felt such a desperate need to prove your strength bulge to bulge with someone. 

She meets your gaze, and this time you think she is responding. To your growl? Well, you always knew you had a lovely voice. If that’s how you have to entice her, so be it. You growl again, softer, more inviting, almost a purr except that it absolutely is not. It’s angry and threatening and daring and her ears twitch wonderfully. You’re starting to smell her pheromones now, and that’s something that can’t be faked.

You take that as invitation, pushing your chair away and walking slowly to her, as if you’re stalking her. 

‘Redglare,’ you growl. 

She pushes her chair out as well, but doesn’t leave it. 

‘There’s nothing you can do that will change the facts of your imprisonment,’ she tells you.

You laugh, coldly, imperiously. 

‘I’m right where I want to be,’ you say.

In this moment, it’s true. You stop in front of her and lean against the table. You touch the tip of her pointy horn with the tip of your finger. She doesn’t react in an obvious way, but she’s so still she must have stopped breathing. You trace your finger down to the base and then slide your hand into her hair, against her warm scalp. You hold her firmly and bend close enough to kiss.

She tries to lean in, but you don’t let her. You make her wait, like she made you wait. You see her eyes narrow behind her shades. You have a lot more experience than her, you know how long to hold the tension to keep her interested.

When you kiss, she doesn’t bite you at all. Good. Work up to it. You tangle your tongues together and moan a little into her mouth. She shudders. Definitely has a thing for your voice. You pull away and lick slowly up her jaw. She seems to remember that she has hands herself and pushes you back. You let her hair go even though you could have hurt her sweetly and smile at her. 

‘What will your superiors say if they find out you pailed your prisoner right in the middle of the dining room?’ you ask her.

‘Who says I’m going to pail you,’ she says.

Cute. 

You have gotten quite good at dressing and undressing yourself one handed in the past week and a half since she took your arm. You might have practiced with her in mind. She won’t be able to make you admit to that crime, though. 

Her nails dig into the arms of her chair as you deftly unbutton your prison shirt. You assume you were given one with buttons either to challenge or humiliate you. How hard is it to find clothes that come off over one’s head for the woman with one arm? Regardless, you rose to the challenge. You leave your shirt open, the edges of the fabric just barely keeping you decent.

Redglare doesn’t have to reach far to slip her hand against the curve of your waist. You knew that she had teal blood from her sign, but the physical feeling is a nice reminder. She belongs beneath you. 

Your growls are definitely sounding more like smug purrs now. You like the feel of her warm hand on you, like that she must be impressed by how cool and hard you must feel to her. You have worked hard on your ship and your body shows it. 

Her fingers find their way to your hip and pull you in closer, so you’re standing over her, straddling her thighs. You shake your head so that your hair falls with casual wildness over your chest and shrug your shirt off. She takes a lock in between her fingers and plays with it idly, teasing you with her patience. 

You take her glasses off and toss them carelessly onto the table behind you. Her irises are less vibrant than you were expecting. How young is she? How on earth did she prove herself so capable as to be assigned to you?

She distracts you from these questions quite effectively by brushing half your hair over your shoulder and taking your rumblesphere in hand. She teases you with light fingers just on the edge of your nipple. She makes eye contact with you as she pinches it gently, applying and then taking the pressure away. 

You affect as blasé a look as you can, but your bulge, which had felt swollen inside your sheath throughout dinner as you hated her and stared at her, is now slowly slipping out. You swallow as it rubs against your nook on its way out, so slowly. 

Redglare is still staring at you and you would feel more ashamed at your immediate readiness if you couldn’t smell the desire on her so strongly. You grab her roughly by the neck and kiss her again, desperate and dirty, trying to bring her to your level. You want to tangle bulges, you want her to come buckets for you with barely any prompting and then go again because she’s young and inexperienced and you are going to  _ ruin _ her pitch quadrant for  _ decades. _

She groans against your lips and moves her hands to your back, to scratch her claws against your skin and pull you closer. You feel another surge of hate that she is just turning you on even more and dig your nails into her neck.

You can’t sit on her lap properly, not on this fucking chair, but you don’t have to put up with this shit. You let go of her long enough to slam the heel of your hand through each of the arms, splintering them from the chair, and straddle her lap. You are immediately gratified with the feel of her bulge moving slowly against your sheathe. 

You want to rip her clothes off, but it’s actually easier to unbutton them properly than do that with you having only one hand, so you tug at the first button as you kiss her again. Your work through half her buttons before your own body starts getting in the way, so you pull away from her lips reluctantly.

She rips the shirt the rest of the way off and drags you back with a soft snarl. You roll your hips against her bulge slowly. She snarls again and grabs a handful of your hair, pulling your head to the side so she can bite and suck at your neck. 

‘ _ Oh fuck _ ,’ she whispers into your skin. 

You play with her thin necklace as she works wonders on your neck, eyes half lidded with satisfaction. The symbol at the end is vaguely familiar, but it’s not hers. You know her symbol well. You wonder if she’s quadranted with a troll you’ve met before. You don’t really care. Her tongue flicks against your skin deliciously and sends a shiver down your body.

One of her hands is still fisted in your hair, keeping you still, while the other strokes distracted patterns up and down your back. You are feeling suspiciously relaxed for a pitch fling, so you tighten your grip on the necklace and twist, cutting off her breathing. She relaxes her hold on you immediately, deferring to your position of power as if she didn’t just have her teeth at your neck.

Oh well, she’s still young. You’ll teach her better.

You release it and she doesn’t shame herself by gasping. She just breathes deeply, looking at you with blown pupils. You can barely see the teal in her eyes.

‘Are you going to fight me on this one, legislacerator?’

She smiles broadly.

‘If you’re worried about me keeping up …’ she says.

‘I don’t worry about things that aren’t possible,’ you tease.

She somehow manages to smile wider. You’re in danger of becoming fond of that smile. 

‘Pants off,’ you command softly.

She waits just a beat longer than an obedient troll would. Not quite long enough to justify punishment, but long enough that you think she’s making a point of  _ going along _ with your dominance, rather than bending to it. 

You would be more cross if she wasn’t rather magnificent naked.

Her hair is short, like she has to rely on close quarters fighting and doesn’t want to give her opposition the advantage, and her rumblespheres are cute and perky and utterly harmless looking. If that’s her bulge fully extended, then it’s positively tiny. 

That’s fine by you. You prefer to give than take. You’re just generous that way. 

And you think you’ll start by giving her a taste of your bulge. You push your pants down and smirk at her as she takes in your size. You get a little thrill from the expression of doubt that she hides under admiration and lust. 

You hop onto the table and spread your legs luxuriously, resting just the tips of your toes on her chair for balance. 

‘Tell me you can use that tongue for something more exciting than reading off charges,’ you say.

She grins at you, showing off her full set of teeth again. You raise an eyebrow to show you’re not daunted. This isn’t your first pitch pail. And your last kismesis was a prince, the pointy bastard.

She shuffles the chair forward and you rest your foot on the splintered end of the arm you broke off. The pricks of broken wood barely distract you as she scratches up your legs, then back down. 

She looks you in the eye cockily before tracing back up the undersides of your calves, then thighs, before encouraging your legs above her shoulders. She bites and then kisses at the inside of your knee. You groan in frustration when she moves barely a mouth length along your thigh before biting again. She’s going to take her time. 

You let yourself fall down onto your back on the table. You’ll sit up again when it’s worth supervising her, not while she’s still  _ slowly _ sucking and licking a meandering path to your bulge. It feels amazing, especially with her nails digging in just so to your ass, spreading you teasingly. Your bulge is swollen with anticipation, pressing against the folds of your nook as it starts to move, searching for friction, or better yet, some opening it can fit into. 

It starts responding to Redglare’s bites and kisses by attempting to get in between her lips and your leg. There’s a second of tension when it pushes against the outside of her cheek and your body foolishly thinks it’s going to get some relief, but she just slips her fingers around your bulge and pulls it away. 

Of course, this is better than nothing and your bulge twists desperately around her. You’ve honestly become a bit spoiled by your courtesans. You might have lost your favourite red pail to an assassin, but you haven’t gone more than a few days without  _ something _ in sweeps. And you’ve certainly gone a long time since you have wanted someone that you couldn’t have, no matter how temporary this situation turned out to be. You’re digging your heels into Redglare’s spine, driven almost frantic by the promise of what you’re not getting. She bites you sharply on the sensitive skin at the very top of your thigh. You whine and you feel her breath huff against your nook as she laughs quietly.

You clutch at the table and moan as she licks you, teasingly light and you barely keep yourself from squirming closer. She pauses and rolls her wrist to stroke up the length of your bulge. She squeezes it just enough for it to stretch and thin in her hand and then lets go again. She licks your nook again, firmer and slower this time.

_ ‘Fuck!’ _ you cry when she pulls away. You want more, you want her whole tongue in you, you want her fingers as well and her bulge and you don’t give a fuck if that’s impossible all at once, you want it anyway. 

She’s interrupted on her third lick by your bulge thrashing against her face. You didn’t even notice that she’d let it go. You’re about to tell her off for dropping the ball on that simple activity when she takes the tip of your bulge into her mouth and sucks.

Your mind goes almost completely blank with pleasure. You can’t think of anything more complex than  _ wanting  _ at the moment. She slips her lips deeper, tangling her tongue with your bulge as much as she can. Her hand finally grasps the base of it again, and it’s almost enough but not quite, and then the the fingers of her other hand are spreading your nook again, teasing the edges, and that’s not enough either and it’s also  _ too much _ at the same time.

If you knew that legislacerators blew like this, you would have let yourself get caught a long time ago.

Your thighs are starting to shake with tension and you want to fuck her so fucking badly, so you sit up. Redglare skillfully adjusts her position so that she doesn’t even need to pull off. She looks up at you with wicked eyes, cerulean slurry smeared on her face.

‘Let me,’ you say, more clear commands failing you.

She releases your bulge with a final strong suck and clears her throat a little. 

‘Lie back,’ she says.

You obey so quickly that for a moment you wonder if she has psionics too. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t so turned on.

She lets go of your bulge and climbs onto the table as well, her hands planted on either side of your shoulders but her knees frustratingly to one side of you. She leans down and plants a messy kiss on your lips. You don’t have any problem tasting yourself. The thought that she might try to one up you that way makes you smirk into the kiss.

She pulls away and winks at you before turning around.  _ Ah _ . Now you understand. You give her a little slap on the ass when she’s in position and she makes an adorable yelping noise. You’ll have to do that again when she won’t expect it. 

And then her mouth is around your bulge again and you’re fighting to keep focused. You’re going to use this desperation on her. She’s going to feel how much you want her cute little bulge, you’re going to make it so she’s begging for you to bury yourself in her nook. 

You can fit her whole bulge in your mouth without much difficulty, so you do. Her body shakes on top of yours when you tangle your tongue around it and suck, pushing your tongue against her bulge as if you think you can actually eat it. 

She moans and you are encouraged further. You wish you had two hands, remembering the delicious teasing of being spread and denied until you begged for it, but you can do a lot with just one. You grab her ass and pull her even closer to your face, moaning with satisfaction when she melts into you. You’re going to take all her dignity, she’s going to be grinding against your face by the time you’re done. 

You drag a teasing claw around her upper leg and ease up on your sucking so she can feel it. She sucks even more enthusiastically on your bulge, and you think she’s daring you to keep going. You tease even more, almost just holding her bulge in your mouth and drawing light patterns frustratingly close to her dripping entrance. 

She pulls off your bulge to gasp out, ‘ _ Fuck _ ,’ and press her face against your leg.

Well, if it’s getting so she can’t focus on you at all, you probably should do something about that. 

You dip a finger inside her. She’s so wet that it feels like her nook is inviting you in, like you can’t help but slip inside. You hum approvingly against her bulge. You poke your tongue out to lick at the edge of her nook.

She whines and her muttered curses become less Alternian and more nonsense wiggler clicks and moans. It’s fucking adorable as well as sexy. You’re highly motivated to see what other noises you can get out of her. 

You press another finger into her and you think you hear the word ‘ _ more _ ’ in the middle of her mumbling. You’re very happy to deliver. She’ll need to be stretched if she is going to take your bulge. And she  _ is _ going to take your bulge. 

You’re so fucking  _ pissed _ that she took your arm. You could be coming at her from multiple angles, could be holding her bulge away so that you could use your tongue and your fingers, could be reaching down to tweak at her nipples or scratch her back. The rage at the pseudo impotence only lasts as long as it needs to turn into a vicious competitiveness. You’ll be the best motherfucking lover she has ever had or ever will have  _ in spite _ of the handicap that she has given you. 

You thumb at the sensitive edges of her nook as you insert your last finger into her. You suck around the edges, close to her bulge, and she squirms, trying to direct your mouth. As if you aren’t doing it better than she could hope to ask for. She groans and finally takes your bulge back into her mouth. She starts to tease at your nook with her own fingers and you bite at her leg to stop her.

‘Don’t want your fingers,’ you growl. ‘Just your bulge.’

Her bulge pokes its way into your mouth and you suck on the tip of it and her nook at the same time. She whines around your bulge and wraps her hand around the base instead. She squeezes tight and the friction it causes when your bulge tries to thrash against her grip is delicious. You want more, can’t wait for her nook, need her,  _ need her.  _ Fuck it, she’s as prepared as she’s gonna get. 

You pull your fingers out and slap her on the bum again. She makes a surprised noise, but releases your bulge before climbing off you. You keep her bulge in your mouth until she pulls it away from you. 

You sit up and hold your arms out for her to climb into. She does, kneeling so that her ass is in the air and her breasts are in kissing range, something that you immediately take advantage of. You bite at the soft skin and flick your tongue over her nipple as your bulge starts to seek out her nook. It’s big enough that the tip almost reaches, teasing the tops of her thighs. 

‘You gonna be able to take it, legislacerator?’ you ask, raising your eyebrow in challenge. She looks down at you and combs her fingers through your fringe, brushing it out of your face. 

‘I don’t suppose you have any confessions to make,’ she laughs. ‘Be nice to be able to justify this.’

‘Pleasure justifies pleasure,’ you tell her. ‘Of course you wouldn’t know that, sticking so close to the law. Is there room in your nook for me as well as the massive stick?’

She dips her head to bite at your lips and lowers herself a careful inch. Your bulge is so shallow in her that it flicks out again when it moves. You growl in frustration. 

‘We’ll have to see,’ she says sweetly. She lowers herself again and sighs with pleasure. Her bulge twists and untwists from yours as she goes. You focus on not thrashing out of her again now that you’re starting to get some relief. You ignore the urge to pull her down by her hips and just fuck her deep. She’ll get there. 

She slips down again, further this time, groaning softly. Her hand, still tangled in your hair, grips tighter and pulls. You’re not sure she knows she’s doing it, but you close your eyes against the tingly pain-pleasure and keep as still as you can.

She shifts again and you feel like you’re about halfway in her. You can’t control your bulge’s movements anymore and your purrs are audible again, vibrating through your body and contrasting with hers. 

‘’S okay, if you want to stop there,’ you breathe. With her immunity to your psionics and lacking Dualscar’s experience and size you would be surprised if she could take you all the way. This has to be a lot. She feels so tight and warm, cooler than your favourite slave girl, but not by much.

She tugs on your hair again and this time you know it’s on purpose. You get a thrill up your back. 

‘I  _ like _ it big,’ she tells you, challenge in her eyes.

She sinks down again, forcing you to keep eye contact. You don’t dare blink. You feel like you’re pressing against the roof of her nook, brushing her shame globes. All you can do now is widen and shorten your bulge. It’s already thickest at it’s base, but if she is at her limits, it’s only going to get thicker.

‘Feels so good,’ she moans, her eyes closing, breaking the connection between you. 

You stroke her back, her side, linger over her grub scars. She shivers.

‘God,  _ Redglare _ ,’ you gasp.

She grinds back and forth on you, her bulge squeezing yours where you can’t fit in her, and impossibly, she takes more. You can’t thrash at all in her, she’s too tight, so hot and you can feel her shame globes vibrating against the tip of your bulge, coaxing more slurry out. 

What the fuck is she going to do when you come? 

It’s very difficult to care about that when she finally gets deep enough to slip the tip of her bulge into your nook. With the intense size difference, this was as much as you were hoping for. You moan desperately.

‘Sign—’ she gasps. You haven’t heard anyone swear on the concept of signs before. You haven’t heard anyone say  _ scorpio _ , either, though they absolutely should. 

‘Fuck,  _ please _ ,’ she moans.

‘Please what?’ you ask. Your voice is breathless too.

‘ _ More _ .’ 

Oh fuck. Your hips thrust up without you even thinking about the logistics of it and she cries out, her head back.

You groan and do it again. She  _ screams, _ her bulge thrashing wildly in your nook, her claws hooked viciously into your shoulders and then she’s  _ filling you _ with her slurry, nook so tight around you, you should pull out, she  _ can’t _ take your slurry, she’s too fucking small. You come anyway, more intensely than you can remember coming.

She whimpers. You can feel your slurry slowly leaking out of her around your bulge and onto your skin. Your bulge  _ slowly _ retracts and the material comes out with it. Her bulge is still swollen, almost rigid inside your nook.

You stroke down her back, just to feel the tension. She shivers deliciously. Now that you’ve come, you can think more clearly. The feeling of her bulge still moving slowly inside you is nice, but not doing anything for you. Your bulge finally retracts, but the drop of slurry you were expecting doesn’t happen.

She moans, a quiet, small sound.

Curious, you reach down and stroke at her nook. She  _ keens _ . 

‘What—?’

‘ _ Don’t stop _ ,’ she begs.

You trace the edges of her nook and she moans again. 

‘Come here,’ you say, pulling her into your chest. She practically collapses on you.

You reach down to her nook again and dip the tip of your finger in. She squirms up your body as if worried you couldn’t reach properly. You kiss her on the cheek and then her horn. You very much enjoy that she’s still out of her mind while you’re calming down. 

You slip a second finger inside her and scissor them, opening her up. Slurry drips from her nook and down your leg. 

‘ _ Fuck _ ,’ she whines. ‘Oh fuck, oh Sign—nah!’

Something about that word again pings you, but you’re too focused on the noises she’s making as she grinds against your fingers to worry about that. Her bulge inside you is starting to feel just a bit too much, too sensitive.

You add a third finger and spread her again. You bite down on her ear and she  _ relaxes _ , suddenly spilling out your own slurry. She starts to shake, presumably in reaction to her emptiness, and then she’s spilling inside you again. 

‘Good girl,’ you tell her, nibbling on her ear. 

She sighs, feeling almost boneless in her relaxation. You wipe your fingers on your own thigh so you can brush her hair out of her face. 

‘You’re gorgeous,’ you tell her. ‘I’d like to keep you.’

‘I can’t be kept, babe,’ she replies. 

‘No,’ you sigh. 

‘And you’re going to die in a week.’

You smirk at her. 

‘Is that so? Maybe I’ll get lucky.’

She leans up on her elbow and frowns at you, concerned.

‘I’ve never lost a case. Are you planning something?’

You laugh and pull her back to rest against your rumblespheres. 

‘You’re a neophyte. How many cases can you have had for that to be an impressive statement?’

‘Mindfang,’ she insists, her voice slightly muffled. 

You hum happily.

‘You should call me Marquise. We could roleplay! I’ll be the aristocrat, you’ll be the midblood who is so very attractive I give up my station to be with you and live in some common area.’

‘This is the palest pitch pail I have ever had.’

You laugh again.

‘You’re practically a wiggler. How many  _ pails  _ can you have had for that to be an impressive statement?’

She grumbles against you.

‘Mindfang, I’m not … I meant what I said. This can’t change anything.’

You tilt her chin up and kiss her. 

‘Aranea,’ you say, quietly. ‘I think we’ve earned that intimacy.’

She frowns at you for a moment, conflicted.

‘Latula,’ she says quietly.

Your fingers find her necklace again and you play with it as you think.

‘Does this belong to a quadrant?’ you ask.

‘I don’t have any,’ she replies easily. ‘It’s just a good luck charm.’

You duck your head down so that you can eye the symbol better. You wouldn’t pick up on Latula stiffening against you if she wasn’t literally lying on top of you.

‘Seems to me …’ you start carefully. ‘Like you’re not in any position to question the hemospectrum.’

‘I wouldn’t dare,’ she says. 

A legislacerator really should be able to lie. She’s young. She’ll learn.

‘Do you know that I have vision eightfold?’ you say. ‘Or had, rather, until your lusus burnt it out of me.’

‘Is that a confession?’ she asks.

You dip your head towards her ear. 

‘Are we being listened to?’ you ask.

‘Seems like it’s a little late to ask that,’ she whispers back.

‘My bulge is worthy of sharing. My thoughts less so,’ you tell her.

What a load of shit. You’ve recorded almost every significant thought you’ve had. You’re protecting  _ her _ , now. She was right. This is  _ awfully _ pale.

‘They won’t pick up whispers,’ she says, her lips close to your ear. ‘I must be the worst—’

‘I’m going to rebel against the empress,’ you say, interrupting her concerns. She falls silent to hear you, which is lucky seeing as you are speaking as quietly as you can. ‘I’ve seen the future. I’m going to rebel for the sake of the lowbloods and the mutants and the cripples and I will die doing so.’

She pulls away from you and sits up. The sign that you now recognise as belonging to the Signless (was she cursing using his name?) hangs between her breasts, the interlocking cuffs shining against grey skin. 

‘Come to my respiteblock,’ she says. ‘And make good on those promises.’

It’s a lot harder to pull your pants on with your legs wet with slurry, but you manage it. Latula actually helps you with the buttons on your shirt. You consider slapping her hands away, but you want to see what she says when she’s confident no one is listening. (And you feel pale for her, you want her to take care of you, what is  _ wrong _ with you?)

She holds your hand as she leads you to her respiteblock. You almost snatch your hand away, not because it feels bad, but the opposite. She pulls you inside and smiles at you, fronting, obviously, but it’s special because it isn’t the smile full of pointy teeth that she uses as a warning and tease all at once, it’s a smile that apologises for her lack of clarity and promises confidence soon. 

She closes the door behind you and then ducks past you again so that she can reach her desk. Her quarters are just as sparse as yours. The life of a public servant. You’d much rather be a pirate. 

‘Come in my ‘coon,’ she says, still with that appeasing smile on her face. 

‘Dirty,’ you remark.

She blushes, but takes off her shirt. You start to undress as well. A recuperacoon is as good a place as any to have a private conversation. She gets in before you, of course. She has two hands. 

You sweep your hair into your hand in a practiced motion and flick-twist it into a bun. You’ve gotten quite smooth about doing this one handed, even if it feels more messy than it used to. You force yourself not to care. You’re a pirate, messy is expected. (You’re considering cutting your hair short, unless you can find a replacement arm.)

You slide in her ‘coon and she pulls you close by your waist. You tangle your legs with hers automatically. Why does she feel so right? 

‘I can’t smell,’ she whispers. 

For a moment, your mind whirrs. She’s saying this like it’s some kind of secret, like she’ll be culled if it’s found out. But what the fuck does smell matter?

Except …

She didn’t realise you were pitch for her, did she? She couldn’t tell. And there’s no faster way to be culled than neglecting your pails come drone season. 

‘Is that enough reason?’ you ask.

‘This system we have,’ she says, so quiet even though her lips brush against your ear. ‘It’s fucked. It isn’t just. I understand the rules, I can comply with them just fine, but they’re fucked. I can’t help that I can’t smell. No one chooses to be a rustblood.’

You stroke her hair out of her face. It seems to want to curl into her eyes.

‘Aranea,’ she says.

She licks at your neck and you realise too late what she’s doing. She might not be able to smell how pale you are for her, but she’s tasted it now.

‘Me too,’ she says quietly.


End file.
